


your eyes are open, but you're not here

by katelusive



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-07-29
Packaged: 2018-02-10 23:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2043531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katelusive/pseuds/katelusive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“One mustn't look at the abyss, because there is at the bottom an inexpressible charm which attracts us.”</p><p>Nine times Will wakes up, and once he doesn't.  Post 2x13</p>
            </blockquote>





	your eyes are open, but you're not here

**“Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.”**

**\- T. S. Eliot**

 

***

 

Will wakes up cold in the hospital, clutching for a hand that isn’t there.  It’s pitch-dark and dead silent, but he’s not alone.  It smells wrong. Musty, sweetly rotten, like an Egyptian tomb.  Ancient spice where there should be the sharp tang of chemical cleaner.  

“Hello, Will,” says Hannibal.

Will tries to say, “What are you doing here?” but Hannibal thumbs his lips gently.  His finger feels ice-cold against Will’s mouth.   

“I came to give you what you lost,” says Hannibal.  

“Where’s Abigail?” Will tries to say, but his throat’s too tight and he can’t squeeze the words out.  The smell is overpowering.

“You will never be alone, Will,” says Hannibal, and he places something on the pillow.  His eyes are black and unreadable, face cut into sharp, impossible angles by the green glow of medical equipment.  

Will turns his face to see Hannibal’s gift.  It’s a human ear, bloody and ragged where it was torn off.  Will’s breath catches in his throat.  

“I thought you might want it back,” says Hannibal.  Slowly, Will raises a hand to the side of his head.  It comes away wet and sticky.    

“Don't leave me here!” he tries to scream, but Hannibal is already slipping out of the room.  The shadows turn him into a panther, lithe and powerful, with blood under his fingernails.  Will is drowning in the darkness.  

 

***

 

Will wakes up and he can’t move.  At first he thinks he’s tied down.  The hospital ceiling looks the same as it did yesterday — or has it been longer than that?  — aerated tiles with swirling patterns in the dots, evil faces sneering at him if he watches too closely.  

Someone’s stroking the sweaty hair back from his forehead.  Warm fingers, smelling of rosewater and lemons.  

“Shh, shh,” someone says, like a secret.  

“He’s waking up,” says someone else.  A sharp, professional voice.  “Get him some water.”  Will can smell sour breath, the tang of cold metal against his elbow.  Someone puts a paper cup to his lips but he can’t swallow.  

It’s daytime, or at least he thinks it is.  He can’t see the clock.  They’re telling him that he needs surgery.  They’re telling him when it will be.  He can’t remember.  People’s faces slide in and out of focus like bad camerawork.  It makes him dizzy, so instead he watches the tiny criss-cross stitching of their white coats, their light blue scrubs.  Where’s Abigail? he tries to ask, but his tongue is too heavy against the roof of his mouth.  

Feelings: a prick on the inside of his elbow as they refresh his IV.  Still fingers at his temple with a thrill of tension just below the skin.  Something tight and rough on his stomach, calling up a ripping pain deep below.  

It’s becoming very hard to see.  Will feels strongly as though he should let someone know.  And there’s that business of the ear — he really needs to hide that before any of the doctors see.  Where had he put it?  And oh god, where’s Abigail?

“Help —“ he manages to say before slipping back into the river of dark, still silence.  

 

***

 

Will wakes up leaning against Hannibal’s marble counter, watching him slice something sticky and dark-red.  It smells of sage and olive oil, the delicate tang of ginger.  

“You must use the flat end of the knife to press out the excess liquid,” says Hannibal, demonstrating.  “Do you see?  It must be completely drained.  Otherwise it will cook unevenly.”  

He offers the knife to Will.  “Please, try it for me.”

Will presses the flat side of the knife into the meat.  Blood seeps over the cutting board and drips over the edge of the counter.  Hannibal smiles affectionately.  

“Very good, Will.”  He places his hand over Will’s on the knife, showing him how to slice the meat into thin strips.  His body is pressed up against Will’s, warm and steady, radiating incredible heat.  Will’s mouth feels very dry.  

Hannibal’s mouth is at his ear.  “Would you like to try the next one on your own?”

 

***

 

Will wakes up on a cold silver table, light shining down on him like a searing sun.  He wants to scream but his mouth is glued shut.  He sees white masks, blue gloves covered in blood.

“He’s awake!” someone shouts like a death threat.  Someone else leans over him, one hand pressing on his bloody chest, and Will wonders if it’s Hannibal coming to finish the job.  But no, it’s just Alana— thank God.  She smiles sweetly at him, brushing latex fingers against his sweaty cheek.

“It’s okay,” she says, “just relax.  Relax and count backwards with me from ten, okay?”  

Will wants to make a stupid joke about how next she’s going to ask him to draw another clock — an equally impossible task for him at the moment — but he doesn’t have time to say anything before the darkness slips back over him like a shroud.

 

***

 

Will wakes up alone in Hannibal’s study with a glass of wine in his hand.  He’s sitting in front of the fire in the red, crushed-velvet chair that had always been his favorite.  He’s definitely not supposed to be here.  

Across from him is Hannibal’s chair with a book splayed facedown on the seat.  Will leans over to pick it up.  It’s Hannibal’s sketchbook.  He takes a sip of wine.  He’s never had this vintage before — it’s dark and rich, too rich, like drinking the blood of the earth.  He swallows anyway.  He doesn’t want to be rude.

All of the pages in the sketchbook are blank except for one.  It’s a picture of him with a mask over his mouth, like they’d made him wear last year in the hospital.  And speaking of hospitals, isn’t he supposed to be in bed?  Will examines his stomach through the thick flannel shirt.  Everything seems to be in order.  

Hannibal’s drawing of him is too realistic.  The charcoal-slick eyes flick side-to-side behind the mask, and his hair seems to ripple in an unfelt breeze.  The mask shifts, and Will can tell it isn’t fastened properly in back.  It’s going to slip soon, revealing sharp carnivorous teeth and a gaping bloody mouth.  He wants to throw the book down, but he can’t look away.    

The wine surges back up his throat, thick and meaty, choking him.  Blood seeps from the paper onto his hands.  Will knows he needs to fling the picture into the fire before the mask comes off.  He will.  Any minute now.    

 

***

 

Will wakes up flat on his back in the hospital, staring into the twilight.  He has no idea how long he’s been here.  The clock says 8:37.  He examines his hands for traces of blood — surely they can’t have gotten it all off yet.  There was so much.  The clock says 11:24.  

“Good evening, Will,” says a voice near the door.  Will lifts his head but can’t see anything.

“I know you’re there,” he hisses into the darkness.  “Stop hiding from me.  Show yourself, you fucking coward.”  

“A coward runs away from his troubles,” says Hannibal, “and yet here I am.”

It’s still too dark to see him properly, but the image of Hannibal blooms up pressed and immaculate in Will’s mind.  Hair slicked back, lips pursed with faint distaste at the clinical impersonality of Will’s hospital room.  

“Where is she?” Will growls, and Hannibal touches his hand.  His fingers are ice-cold, like the skin of a corpse.  At this proximity, Will should be able to see his face, but still he can see nothing.  Only shifting, menacing shadows like the deepest part of the sea.  

“Shh, shh,” whispers Hannibal, leaning close to kiss Will on the forehead.  He smells of rosemary and rotten meat.  Will doesn’t have a chance to gag before strong fingers close around his throat.  

 

***

 

Will wakes up in the morgue with Jack Crawford.  The smells of formaldehyde and lemon floor-cleaner are almost comforting.  Another day, another murder.  Jack opens one of the panels and gestures for him to look.  Will can see the time on his digital watch — 7:34.  

He pulls it the rest of the way out.  His first thought is _Oh thank god, it’s not Abigail_.  Instead, it’s her father.  Will’s second thought is _Really?  Him again?_

Garret Jacob Hobbs opens his eyes, light blue and milk-clouded as Will knew they would be.  He reaches dead, fishy fingers up to touch Will’s abdomen where the knife had torn through his shirt.

“See?” he says triumphantly.  “See?”  

He knows Jack is waiting for him to do something, so he slides the panel back into the wall.  

“He’s dead, Jack.  It’s over.”  

But Jack’s dead too, slumped against the wall with arterial blood sprayed in a brilliant arc on the tiles around him.  Will’s heart flies into his throat.  He needs to call someone, anyone —

 

***

 

Will wakes up naked in Hannibal’s bed, with the dark silk sheets twined around his sweaty legs.  The clock says 1:53.  He can see the moon hanging heavy and full through the window, a sinister burnt-orange.

“It’s a blood moon, Will,” says Hannibal from his little armoire near the bed.  His eyes are as black as the kimono he wears, the left one obscured further by a golden sheaf of hair.  “Some people believe they herald a great change.  There have been many prophecies about them.”  

“What do you believe?” asks Will, leaning against the pillows.  Hannibal rises to sit on the edge of the bed.  

“I believe we must make our own prophecies,” says Hannibal, meeting Will’s eyes with an unusual frankness.  His pupils are dilated bullet-holes, like the darkness of deep space.  Will knows suddenly that if he falls into a place like that, he will float forever.  

He leans forward, heart hammering, and kisses Hannibal on the mouth.  Hannibal’s fingers curl into the skin beneath Will’s jaw, a tender threat.  Will reaches up to push the kimono off of Hannibal’s shoulders, dragging his nails down the rippling musculature of Hannibal’s chest.  He wants to scratch his skin off, wants to push his fingers through the gaps in Hannibal’s ribs and feel the living, pumping organs below.

Hannibal bites his lower lip so sharply that they both taste blood.  Will kisses him harder.  

 

***

 

Will wakes up in the hospital, pre-dawn light creaking pale and forlorn through the blinds, like someone’s last breaths.  He sits up in bed.  The clock on the bedside table says 5:43.  There are other things on the table — a glass of water, a little cup of pills, wilting yellow flowers, an unopened envelope with his name on the front.

He reaches for it.  Bright, jagged pain blooms across his body like fireworks.  He can’t get it — not yet, anyway.  But it doesn’t matter.  He knows who it’s from.

The room is still and empty around him, like a tomb.  No dying stags, no gory piles of tragedy, no demon lurking near the door with love in his eyes.  Will blinks away the pain, the tears for Abigail.  Soon he’ll be able to get up and find her.  What had she said to him, just before Hannibal cut her throat?  Had she said anything at all?  Soon, soon he’ll remember.

But he can’t.  It’s still too hazy.  Will floats like a dying leaf in the early morning darkness.  He tries and fails to blink away the feeling of a heart beating against his.  A strong hand twined in his sweaty curls, forcing his head back.  The half-lidded green eyes, amused and inviting, open portals to the realm of devils.  

He pushes it all away and stares at Abigail’s card.  It must be from Abigail.  He knows it in the bone-deep core of himself, the place where secrets are made.  He just needs to have patience.  Soon he’ll be able to get up and find her.  Together they’ll learn to forget.  

 

***

 

But when he floats in the deepest part of the darkness, Will knows everything he can’t make himself face in the daylight.  He knows she’s dead.  He knows he will never find Hannibal again, not the way he found him at the Hobbs house, or those nights they spent sipping wine and sitting with their knees not-quite-touching in front of the fire.  

He remembers Abigail’s smile, and her gaping horrified mouth in Hannibal’s kitchen.  He remembers Hannibal’s sweat-slicked skin — slapping against his back, salty and pulsing against his tongue.  He remembers what it felt like to point a gun at Hannibal’s head.  And he knows that this time, when he wakes up, he will be truly alone.

 

***

 

**“** **He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you.”**

**\- Friedrich Nietzsche**

***


End file.
